


Glass Casket

by rodabonor



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Size Difference, Size Kink, Tiny Twink Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodabonor/pseuds/rodabonor
Summary: “Don’t move. You’ll rip your stitches.”“I’ll redo them. It would be fitting. Almost poetic.”“I tear you open.”“And I piece myself together.”A post-fall fic about their first time, set in an AU where everything is the same except Hannibal is much shorter.





	Glass Casket

Sprawled out on the narrow bed with one hand tucked against his chest, Hannibal looks brazenly innocent. Like a single flower among weeds, not yet trampled, begging to be bruised. Will watches him sleep from the doorway, observing the way dim morning light spills over his face and knuckles, both pale – their tumble into the ocean was barely a month ago and while they are both getting better, they aren’t well.

He looks almost like something from out of a storybook, Will thinks, with his pallor and his long lashes fanning over the wrinkled skin just above his cheek bones. He steps closer, socked feet mute against wooden floors, and towers over Hannibal like a cliff. He had carried him there when they first arrived, had held his dead weight body in his arms despite the screeching pain in his shoulder and lowered him onto what could have been his deathbed. Before that, he had swum with Hannibal on his back until he reached the shallow waters near the shoreline. That thin strip of beach could have been Hannibal’s deathbed too, if it weren’t for Will’s persistent attempts at CPR.

Will stares at Hannibal’s mouth and remembers. 

He remembers the feel of it under his own. Hannibal’s lips had been cold, a dark lilac, stiff like wax. There had been a glimpse of sharp rows of teeth beneath his parted lips, shark’s teeth, like he belonged in the ocean. A smell of iron and seaweed and salt.

Will hadn’t wanted that mouth anywhere near his own at the time. He had considered leaving Hannibal there, like the beached creature that he was, but he knew as he considered it that it wouldn’t happen. If he wanted Hannibal dead, he would have left him at the bottom of the ocean. Wouldn’t he? There was no time to really think, even if Will’s ears stopped ringing and his thoughts aligned themselves in his concussed head. 

So he covered Hannibal’s mouth with his own and breathed into his lungs, fingers fluttering over his heart, over ribs that cracked under the force of his hands when he tried to push life in or maybe out of him. It was hard to tell in that moment, and even harder in retrospect.

Hannibal’s mouth looks different now. Pink and unbloodied, lips a little cracked, but still a beautiful petal shape. Will thinks of Snow White in a glass casket. Then he leans down and kisses Hannibal, lips closed and just barely brushing against his.

He hears and feels and sees the moment Hannibal wakes up; a soft intake of breath, a barely-there twitch of his hand, his eyes slitting open like blinds. They fall closed again as he kisses Will back, tilting his head to slot their lips together properly. His mouth is warm and a little sour when Will nudges his lips open and licks inside. _You don’t remember_ , Will thinks as he feels the drag of Hannibal’s tongue against his own and feels an irrational stir of resentment. That he should have to bear those memories alone. 

“I held your life in my hands,” Will says between kisses, only faintly accusatory.

“Which time?” Hannibal says.

Will is about to tell him to cut the drama when he realizes that Hannibal isn’t truly exaggerating. He lets the tension out of his voice. “I gave you CPR when we reached the shore. I thought about letting you die. Killing you. I still think about it.”

“How would you do it?” 

“That doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What would you do with me after?”

Will thinks about Snow White sheathed in glass again. He draws back and sits down on the edge of the bed while Hannibal props himself up on his elbow. There’s a slight twitch in his face – it’s been at least six hours since he last took any pain medication and he must be feeling it.

“I’d bury you in the yard,” Will says and nods his head in the direction of the window. “Under the tree, in the shade. You don’t like being in the sun too long.”

Hannibal tips his head to the side. “Did I tell you that?”

“You told me a lot of things those first few days after the fall. You’re chatty on morphine.”

Hannibal smiles faintly. “And would you enjoy it? Keeping me below ground.”

“It wouldn’t be that different from having you in prison. I’d know where you were.”

“Perhaps I’d come back to haunt you.”

Will huffs. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it. But I’ve got you rattling around in my head anyway.”

“Then killing me might be exorcism.”

Will doesn’t want to be rid of Hannibal, but he doesn’t want to admit it out loud. He leans down and kisses him instead, soft and slow, but it can't be helped. Desire creeps into the empty hollows of him and demands. Hannibal’s hand is on his neck, then on his cheek – the injured one, still tender and raw and covered by a soft compress. Hannibal doesn’t press down, but the promise of pain is there in his fingers hovering above the cotton, and it makes Will achingly hard. Trusting this much. Giving this much.

Will ruts helplessly into the mattress and moans into Hannibal’s mouth. He wants to touch him, but the novelty of the situation makes him shy and uncertain. He slides his hand over Hannibal’s crotch and rubs a little, emboldened by the way Hannibal pushes into it. He hushes him. 

“Don’t move. You’ll rip your stitches.”

“I’ll redo them. It would be fitting. Almost poetic.”

“I tear you open.”

“And I piece myself together.”

Will shakes his head. “I’m stitching you up. If it comes to that.”

There’s a light flaring up behind Hannibal’s eyes. Will tugs at Hannibal’s sweatpants and underwear and Hannibal carefully kicks them down to the foot of the bed. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Will looks down at his cock, not fully hard, but still thick and long where it curves towards his stomach. It’s bigger than Will’s by far, even at half mast, which makes him feel a sudden sharp stab of inferiority. 

Hannibal seems to sense a shift in Will because he angles his gaze down and away, lips thinning with something that Will would have described as nervousness, if he didn’t know better. It still makes him snap out of the odd sense of near-humiliation and he moves as quickly as he can to straddle Hannibal’s legs, careful not to place his full weight onto them. He places one hand over his chest, fingers fanned out over his heart, to pin him in place. He will put Hannibal together again if he has to, but he would like for them to emerge unscathed from a shared moment of intimacy, just once. 

“No moving,” he cautions Hannibal. He takes his cock in his hand, giving it an experimental stroke. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good at this.”

“You’ll be perfect.”

Will bites back a moan at the reassurance, spoken with such confidence, like Hannibal can’t imagine him any differently. Will tightens his grip and strokes, watching Hannibal’s face as it softens with pleasure. His mouth hangs slack, lips wet and red from being held between his teeth, and Will has to hold him down to keep him from squirming when he picks up the pace.

“Would you fuck me if I asked you to?” Hannibal says, voice a little rougher now, accent a little more prominent, and it’s so jarring to hear that word in his voice that Will almost falters in his rhythm. He smiles even though it hurts his face.

“Crude, doctor Lecter.”

“Nevertheless.”

“I’m worried I’ll hurt you.”

“You know pain doesn’t bother me.”

“And your stitches. I said I don’t want you tearing them.”

“You said you would stitch me up again. Tear me open and put me back together.” There’s a note of longing in Hannibal’s voice and he grunts softly, eyes fluttering closed. “There are supplies in the nightstand.”

They’re in one of Hannibal’s safe houses. As Will picks the small bottle of lube out of the drawer, he considers the fact that Hannibal must have put it there at some point. He can’t picture Hannibal masturbating, even now, but maybe he planned on using it with a partner. The thought is disquieting. 

He takes out a pack of condoms too, but Hannibal shakes his head. Will doesn’t question it. He spreads Hannibal’s legs and thinks that this might be easier in a different position, but he doesn’t want Hannibal to move around too much. He spreads lube over his fingers and rubs little circles over his hole, small and hot, so tight that Will worries about hurting him again as his finger slides in. But Hannibal is quiet, mouth still half open, eyes closed, no signs of discomfort in his face.

Everything is so soft and slick and warm. The silk feel of Hannibal’s insides, the thin, delicate foreskin, wet with precome. Will wonders what it feels like to Hannibal, this intrusion, this breaching of his physical boundaries. He must have wanted it to ask for it. But Will isn’t sure what it is he asked for, and by extension, what it is he wants. He will try to give it to him regardless. 

“Do it now,” Hannibal says. “Like this. I want to see you.”

Will doesn’t argue; he would have wanted the same thing. He grabs a pillow, bunches it up and slides it as gently as he can under the small of Hannibal’s back to prop him up a little. Then he folds Hannibal’s legs back and guides his cock to his hole, slowly starting to sink inside. It’s an almost surreal sight, and yet the most striking image to him is his hands on Hannibal’s thighs – how big they appear, how tanned compared to the pale skin near the juncture of Hannibal’s legs where not even the sun has touched him. Skin begging to be bruised. 

(Will doesn’t squeeze because he’s not sure he could stop if he did, and now is not the time. He thinks there will be one.)

“Come here,” Hannibal says, reaching for him, and Will leans down so Hannibal can wrap his arms around his torso. It occurs to him that Hannibal is small enough that he could cover the entirety of his body with his own body, that he could tuck him close and keep him hidden like a secret. Hannibal pants against his collarbone, chest heaving wave-like, and Will puts his arms around him as he thrusts harder and faster, feeling Hannibal’s cock rubbing slick against his stomach.

Hannibal digs his nails into his back hard enough that it hurts and says Will’s name over and over, stopping only when Will slams his hips so hard against the back of his thighs that he only gets halfway through the one syllable before his breath is punched out of him, like this: Wi- _ah_! and Will doesn’t hold back at all. Sweats and pants and lets his eyes roll back in his head, knowing that all that can be seen on his face is ghostly whites embedded in sweat-slicked skin. Like Will is having a fever dream. Like Will himself is a fever dream. He thinks this is what Hannibal asked for: what he wants.

And Will, he feels something akin to what he felt on the beach. That sense of frightful wonder at the idea that he could do anything, that it’s all up to him and Hannibal can only follow. He thinks about Hannibal’s thighs. The delicate flesh, the pale skin inviting crushed vessels. Little flower, Will thinks, thoughts jumbled with pleasure, Sleeping Beauty, or was it Snow White? No matter. All that matters is:

“Your life.” The words almost sound like growling as they're torn from Will's throat. “My hands.”

“Yes,” is all Hannibal says. Will shoves a hand between their bodies and wraps it around Hannibal’s cock, so wet now, with precome and sweat, and he strokes until Hannibal is writhing against him like an animal, wild and frantic with sharp teeth and nails. Then Hannibal is coming and his body seizes up, clenching and unclenching around Will’s cock, and Will is coming too, hips jerking forward with every pulsing burst of pleasure. It’s an effort to keep from crumpling down on top of Hannibal once it has passed; he’s almost dizzy from it.

Will slowly pulls out and lowers himself gingerly onto his back next to Hannibal, who is still breathing heavily with his eyes open. His legs remain spread the way Will left them. Will wonders if he’d see his own seed trickling past the blushing rim of his hole if he looked. He kisses Hannibal’s pale shoulder, giving it a little nuzzle.

“Are you okay?” 

Hannibal blinks and slowly closes his legs, stretching them out. His hand slides over his stomach and he lifts his bandages, glancing down. “I didn’t tear my stitches,” he says and sounds almost disappointed as he says it. 

“That’s good.” Will touches his face, gently, so Hannibal looks at him. “That’s _good_ , Hannibal. I didn’t want you to.”

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, but Will can see the words waiting to spill past his lips anyway. _I wanted you to put me back together._ But Will can do that without putting a needle through skin. He can do it by kissing the frown off of Hannibal’s face, by limping to the bathroom on trembling legs to get a washcloth for the both of them. He can do it by giving Hannibal his shirt when gooseflesh breaks out over his flowery skin and he can do it by sidling in next to him in the small bed, pulling the stained blankets up over both of them.

He does all this. Then he falls asleep with Hannibal’s cheek pressed against his chest, head full of storybooks and shorelines and the dark dirt comfort six feet underground. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is crack treated seriously? I hope you enjoyed it if you made it all the way down here, kudos and comments are always very much appreciated. More of my Hannigram stuff can be found on my [tumblr](http://beatricenius.tumblr.com/) and my [twitter](https://twitter.com/beatricenius)


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